Attorney Okafor’s expression sharpened. “No. And he doesn’t know that yet.”
A wave of cold moved over my skin.
“What happens when he finds out?” I asked.
“He panics,” she said. “Or he tries again.”
My chest tightened. “We can’t go to the police?”
“We can,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “But not yet, and not just anywhere. Quasi has influence. He has charm. And he has time to spin this into a story where you’re unstable and he’s the grieving husband.”
Her gaze flicked toward Kenzo. “And you have a child who already knows too much.”
I swallowed. “So what do we do?”
“We build a case,” she said simply. “We stay alive long enough to do it right.”
She stood and motioned toward a small back room. “You’ll stay here tonight. It’s not fancy. But it’s locked, and it’s safe.”
I hesitated at the doorway. “Why are you helping us like this?”
Attorney Okafor’s face softened, and for the first time I saw something behind her steel.
“Because your father saved my life once,” she said quietly. “A long time ago. When my own husband tried to kill me.”
The words landed in my bones.
She looked at me with a kind of understanding I’d never seen in anyone’s eyes before. Not sympathy. Recognition.
“I know exactly what this feels like,” she said. “The disbelief, the shame, the way your mind keeps trying to rewrite the truth because the truth is too big.”
My eyes burned.
“I promised Langston if you ever needed me, I’d be here,” she continued. “So yes. I’m here.”
She gave me a small, fierce smile.
“But don’t confuse shelter with victory,” she said. “The game has just begun.”
I lay awake in the back room with Kenzo curled against me, listening to the building settle. The blanket smelled like laundry detergent and old fabric. Kenzo’s breathing was uneven, as if his sleep kept catching on fear.
I watched the ceiling until my eyes ached.
Every time I closed them, I saw the fire.
I saw the key turning in the lock.
And I saw Quasi’s text, bright and casual, as if he hadn’t just tried to erase us.
Around dawn, Kenzo stirred. “Mama,” he whispered, confused, blinking in the dim light. “Where are we?”
I kissed his forehead. “Somewhere safe,” I whispered back. “Go back to sleep.”
At seven, Attorney Okafor knocked once and opened the door.
“Turn on the TV,” she said.
We watched the news footage in silence.
Our house was a blackened shell. Smoke still curled from the ruins. Firefighters stepped over charred beams. The reporter’s voice was solemn.
Then the camera cut to Quasi.
He stood in front of the wreckage, face arranged into horror, wrinkled shirt like he’d been up all night grieving.
“My wife,” he cried. “My son. Somebody tell me they weren’t in there!”
I watched his hands clutch the fire chief’s jacket.
Then Quasi said it, and my skin crawled.
“Did you find the bodies yet?”
Not, did you find them.
The bodies.
Attorney Okafor clicked the TV off.
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